The Persuader
by radishface
Summary: Vicious views an upcoming mission as a chance to refocus himself on the Syndicate. However, a burgeoning friendship with a young and charismatic business leader forces him to confront his growing feelings for Spike. Preseries, UST, slash.
1. When He Was a Child

For UE, whose thoughtful reviews over the years have encouraged me during the most unexpected times.

_Summary: _On a mission without Spike, Vicious discovers what he's been missing the most.

* * *

**The Persuader**

By Radishface

* * *

When he was a child, his mother told him that he'd always remember his first love. _First love_, she said, sighing dreamily into the phrase unto itself.

She was only in her early twenties at the time, not yet subdued by the gravity of her environment and still able to afford the luxury of light gracefulness and whimsy. First love was beautiful precisely because you fought so much, so hard for it. First love was like air or water or fire, elemental, nourishing, and consuming. You fought all the odds, and it didn't matter if those odds were self-imposed or culturally created. What mattered was the fighting, the struggle—that's what made it beautiful. His mother sighed, excessively.

Vicious remembers this as he sinks the katana into this man's flesh, his fingers twisting around the handle, twisting the blade around the ribcage, to find the space between the bones. A great liquid stream fountains up from the heart when he finally pierces it, a red wave swarming to catch him and hold him in its scattered, piecemeal embrace. He feels the warm gushing on his face, chest, and hands, even down to his toes, though his shoes remain clean. He watches this man buck beneath him, the man gritting his teeth and bulging his eyes even now, mind telling body to fight through the steel in his heart and the openings of his skin as if through force of will he can reject this state of being and expel Vicious and the katana, this explosion happening within him.

But his teeth begin to lose their sheen, his mouth its tension. His eyes roll back in his head, his neck stops straining into the concrete. His body is welcoming the blade, the throes, growing accustomed. His heart is growing around it, his body letting out the red carpet and creating a bed, a platform, for this activity, for him to rest as his eyes loll in his head and he summons the presence to look at Vicious again. His mouth is slack and lips swollen as he tries to create speech through the haze, the sleepiness almost upon him now.

He sighs, once.


	2. This Day on Tharsis

2.

This day on Tharsis was a bright one. The sun streamed unabashedly into the offices of Van & Qing Holdings Company, slightly red from the dust storms across the Mariner Valleys. It was around four o clock in the afternoon and Vicious was seated in a high-backed lacquered oak chair, feigning an ease in his legs. Spike paced back and forth feverishly, casting quick and direct glances at him every so often.

"So I hear you're leaving tomorrow."

Vicious turned his gaze from Spike's shoes. "I am."

"You're leaving tomorrow," Spike repeated, placing his hands in his pockets. He leaned forward, then back, as if caught in the middle of a thought.

Vicious fingered the arm of the chair, thinking of the contents in the stiff leather briefcase at his feet. "I do."

"Great," Spike intoned solemnly, and not without petulance, raw impatience.

They sat in somewhat-silence for a bit, not quite looking at each other. "You know what that means, right?"

Vicious tilted his head to the side. "I can only imagine that it could mean one thing."

"I just want to know how you feel about it, damn it."

Spike's outburst made Vicious feel sharper, momentarily. His vision became more fine-tuned. He noticed, where he hadn't noticed before, the sharp crease of Spike's slacks, sharply contrasted by a cavalier wornness at the cuffs of the feet. His eyes did not venture north but stayed intently on the folds at the knees.

"I mean, I just wanted to know if you ever were going to pick..." Spike rubbed his hands through his mane of hair. "So you're going to Earth," he finished crudely, uncarefully.

"It's unlike you to be so agitated," Vicious said. It was the only statement he can make that is absolutely true.

"I'm going to go home and smoke a bowl after you answer my question," Spike proclaimed rather loudly.

Vicious let a hint of a smile to his lips before he forced it away. Spike didn't notice.

"How long is the mission?"

"Seven days."

"So tell me, come on." A tone of remittance, coaxing, an olive branch. "What are you up to down there?"

"Confidential, Spike." He emphasized the other man's name, a sort of concession for the inability to divulge the information. He felt a chill down his spine when he says it, cold and inappropriate.

"Bullshit." Spike's hands clenched. Vicious felt a pang of satisfaction, ill-earned but well-deserved. "And you picked Lin to go with you. Can't fuckin' believe it." Spike's voice suddenly grew airy as if his incredulity were inconsequential. "He's a clerk, you know. A rookie soldier."

"I know." Vicious responded, feeling helpless. Not liking it.

"You don't know enough, apparently." There was an edge to Spike's tone, growing now. Twitching, visibly frustrated by his inability to articulate, he nonetheless continued. "You picked Lin to _go_ with you." "Lin is a fucking clerk, my friend. How the hell is he going to keep tabs on you… or on anything?"

Vicious shrugged, a gesture too careless to be sincere. "Mao made the final decision. You don't have to be like this."

"Look," Spike said, his voice estranged from his mouth, strangled. "I'm not saying I care. Because I don't, I really don't. You can take that little piss boy Lin with you, I don't give a fuck. I'm really happy for you, happy as a pig in shit. You're going to Earth, the alien Motherland, and I—" Spike twisted his head, the action wilder than it was meant to be. His eyebrows were clenched solidly, his face a mass of browbone and tension, thin-lipped displeasure. Vicious watched with disinterest, a sour, salty-sweet taste creeping up from the back of his throat the only indication that the other man's performance had affected him in any way. Vicious thought he might say, _you don't mean that,_ but averted his gaze and kept silent. An abrupt sigh flooded the room—a deep groan, summoned from the bottom of one's lungs, from the depths of one's diaphragm, a navy-colored sound that unexpectedly churned through Vicious's own ribcage.

He looked up before he could stop himself, startled, but Spike had already left the office.

* * *

Spike apologized for his behavior, his irrationality, in his own way. When Vicious returned to the apartment that evening after his briefing, there was a small plate of leftover bell peppers and beef lying out in the cold, as if left out by accident. Vicious knew better.

The food was not enough. It was too cold, left out too long. It was not a complete admission, but an insinuating one. Vicious did not know which one he preferred; the back and forth tension in that sunlit office, fierce murmurs of real things unsaid, or this. What he did know was that _this_ was better in the long run, for everybody: the tasteless, the conventionally accepted, executed without thinking.


	3. The Rank of Persuader

3.

The rank of persuader was somewhere above soldier and somewhere below capo. It was unofficial nomenclature within the syndicate's hierarchy, but tacitly accepted and universally acknowledged. The role of a persuader was to ask questions first, then shoot.

Vicious would be acting the role of persuader for this assignment, and had been briefed accordingly. In his briefcase and bags he stocked a number of things. The surveillance camera and radio set sat beneath a false bottom which bore a number of important contracts and financial analysis reports. A duffle bag contained a disassembled AK-47, a set of 9mm Uzis a PP7 with silencer, and multiple rounds of ammunition for each piece. In his bag he'd also packed a winter coat and a change of clothes—the standard Red Dragon uniform: black tailored suit with red lapel, dragon brooch, black shirt and grey silk tie. The load pressed unevenly against his back as he walked down the tarmac to the Sahaliyan. The ship gleamed uncertainly in the sunshine, unconfident; the Syndicate logo was chipping in many places and the chrome caps needed polishing. As of this mission, presentation of the Sahaliyan would not matter. They would be landing in the Heilongjiang province of the Democratic People's Republic of China and traveling inland in a smaller and lighter transport, so as not to arouse unwanted attention.

Mao trailed behind, speaking in languid, unlabored tones with the pilot, commenting on the weather. Lin walked a few steps in front of Mao, observant and watchful even if he couldn't see them. Vicious was already on the ship, moving about and stowing his bags in the overhead luggage compartments, recalling the way in which Spike greeted him this morning: stretched out on the couch in the living room as if there weren't enough space to contain him, his body shiny with sweat and flushed from his morning kickboxing routine, his chest still heaving unnaturally, quicker than normal. "Hey," he had said, without turning to look at Vicious, "sorry about the food last night." He'd sounded as if there were more to it, but in the next moment had turned on the television. Sounds of the morning news bumbled and crashed off angles of their apartment, bumping chaotically against the furniture and Vicious' ears.

Of course, all was forgiven.

The Sahaliyan taxied down the runway as soon as the fuel and engine had been checked. It picked up speed. A piercing roar filled his ear, the rising crescendo of the plane's industrial scream turning into a buzz, crowding out his other thoughts until nothing was left in his mind except for a steady white noise and the details of the mission, the heaviness in his limbs that had everything to do with the upward acceleration of the flight as he escaped the clutches of gravity miles below.


	4. The Meeting Was Held

4.

The meeting was held in a conference room in the Choe Corporation's headquarters, the top floor of a glossy glass and steel skyscraper in the heart of the domed New Seoul, overlooking the rest of the city. Plasma TV screens lined the walls; a long table furnished with bottles of Diet Pippu also held big bowls of cashews, pistachios, and dried seaweed.

Chairing the meeting was Dr. Seung-ri Park, an electrical engineer with an MBA and the CFO of Choe Corporation. He sat at one end of the table. Soumin Choe, chairman of the board and president of the corporation, sat at the opposite end, planted firmly in his chair with an air of patriarchal forgiveness and restrained joviality. Next to him was Soumin Choe, his son; the junior Choe, vice president of finance, was eager-eyed and tense in the shoulders. The two were flanked by select members of the Choe Corporation board—the meek, sickly-looking Aizawa Tachibana, VP of Operations at Nomura Investment Bank, and a spirited-looking Perry Ellis, the VP of Marketing, exuding a bright confidence which may or may not have been feigned.

Off to Ellis' side sat Jaesung Kim, legs crossed and leaning away from the boardroom table, absently spinning a pen in his fingers. Kim was lean and sleek, with thick black hair. His eyes wandered over the table before his gaze crossed the table. His eyes paused briefly on Vicious, questioning and amused, before he returned his attention to the document in front of him.

Vicious was the only one standing, positioned at the door, relegated to playing bodyguard. Mao and Liu Wenming sat next to each other, their gazes cast straight ahead, lips slightly smiling. Lin sat to Mao's left, screen saver on his laptop a picture of the Tharsis skyline at night.

"Gentlmen," Mao intoned solemnly, like a father chastising his son for playing baseball inside the house. "I hate to talk business on such a beautiful day—but the chairmen of Van & Qing are notorious for their impatience. We would love to know what you thought of the proposal, and how we might be able to move forward in cooperation."

* * *

They had landed in Harbin early that morning, just as the sun was coming over the horizon. The dock gleamed in shades of red and yellow, warm morning tones taking on a lusty appearance in the sheen of oil and debris that coated the harbor's waters. The harbor bustled with life, if it could be called that—laborers shuffled back and forth, unloading crates that had arrived on neighboring ships and shuttles. A fishing ship puttered in a few docks away, and even from the view of the Sahaliyan, Vicious could see that the catch was meager. Harbin proper loomed a distance away, shrouded in a yellowish thicket of smog, the city's productive legacy.

Harbin, a city of decaying industry and waste, humanity dehumanized over the course of the years, their yellow hands turning grey with soot and atmosphere. The dock workers were small, hard, mechanical in their movements, their harsh grey-yellow heads housed beady black eyes in small slits, the aperture not a consequence of ethnicity but a product of economy, a conservation of organic resources. Vicious watched as the dock workers below prepared for their disembarkation, backing up a staircar and laying down the refuel lines, side-stepping with ease the puddles of murky water that flowed into sewer drains. Vicious suddenly had a ferocious, concentrated thought—that even the shit here must taste like ash. It was hard to imagine anything of importance, of utility, coming out of this city's rusted embrace.

A shuttle waited outside for them as they disembarked. Vicious and Lin loaded the luggage into the trunk as Mao made small talk with Liu Wenming, who had arrived to brief Mao on the latest research and development news at the Harbin pharmaceutical plant. Liu was the stoic director of operations for the Red Dragons' East Asia holdings, his handshake as cold and stern as his eyes and the set of his jaw.

In relative silence the four of them rode, the hum of the shuttle's electric engine peppered with murmuring crescendos and decrescendos from Mao and Liu's conversation, the shuffling of documents, the continuous typing as Lin transcribed the meeting. They arrived at the manufacturing grounds—a cold, barren area of asphalt, concrete and dead foliage, the vista peppered with six-foot smokestacks, curving ventilation units peeking out from under the concrete blanket. Liu explained to Lin and Vicious that Harbin's cool temperature has made it an ideal location for the research of volatile chemical compounds, and that the region's climate allows them to reduce costs tenfold during the winter months. He led them to a barrel-shaped structure that concealed an elevator within, where they rode down to emerge in a chrome-tiled room. Their fingerprints were scanned and a UV-lit hallway disinfected them as they passed through. An attendant on the other side handed them lab coats and gas masks and a retina scan confirmed their identities a second time.

A sterile white hallway separated the different laboratories, the warehouses framed with wall-to-ceiling glass and fluorescent lights. Two men in lab coats—they could have been researchers, maintenance workers, administration—were chatting at the end of one hallway. They spoke easily, gently to one another, sharing a physical intimacy beget from the hours of work and an ease of conversation wrought from intellectual understanding. It occurred to Vicious that the men appeared familiar, that they could be anybody, dressed in lab coats with their backs turned to observers. They could be brothers, they could be capos.

They could have been Spike.

Vicious let himself indulge that thought for a moment. He fingered the lining on the inside of the coat pocket and let himself believe for a moment that he could have been anybody. The thought flooded through him, wilting and sensual, traces of nostalgia coloring his vision sepia.

One of the men turned around, alerted out of his shared reverie, perhaps, by the sounds coming in from the entrance. Vicious blinked once, twice, slowly, counting the seconds he had left in his thoughts, as one of them.

"Vicious?" Lin whispered, though whispering wasn't necessary. Vicious found himself irritated by the other man's gesture. Liu and Mao were heading down the hallway as a manager briefed them on red eye production, recent finances, and how the lawyers were dealing with the head scientist who had been plotting to go public with the syndicate's research. He thought of his preferences, how he would rather have Spike there to whisper his name, jolt him from his thoughts as things happened around him—Lin taking notes, Mao and Liu shrouded in meeting talk, the men down the hallway inhabitants of their own world, and Vicious ambling behind them all, watchful and watchless, his mind years beyond the future, past space and time and perspective. Then, forcibly, he thought of nothing at all.

* * *

He tried to keep that absence of though furious in his head as he stood by the door in the boardroom, in New Seoul, in this present. Vicious felt his body crowding and expanding upon itself, reemerging in the physical world as a defiant authority even as he stood rigidly, a bodyguard, a persuader who hadn't yet persuaded. He wilted, emasculated, as emotions and hot blood flowered through him—contained and controlled as that sensation reduced itself to a point, his consciousness asserting and denying himself, alternatingly and obsessively. It was paranoia.

Jaesung had watched him throughout the entire meeting, leaving cause and effect in tatters.


	5. It Just So Happened

5.

It just so happened that they had signed off on the partnership the same weekend as the Choe Corporation's 20th anniversary. Vicious, Liu, Mao, and Lin were extended invitations to the celebratory dinner that was going to take place at a location an hour outside of the city. They hadn't packed for the occasion, but Mao accepted Soumin's invitation with a cheery smile and a self-deprecating comment about not being well-dressed enough for the occasion. From the way he and Soumin took turns patting each other on the back and bursting into laughter over the ensuing small talk, one would have thought that they'd known each other forever.

It was a power play, Lin explained to Vicious on the ride there. The Choe Corporation was obviously leveraging their 20th anniversary party to show the Red Dragons their resources and wealth. It was similar to the way kings and emperors built up their courts to function as the country's primary representative of wealth and prosperity. It was, Lin said, sotto voce, his breath thick with the smell of wine and whiskey, an obvious power play. But the Choes weren't going to show us, he said. The Choes didn't know what they had just gotten themselves into. We're the fucking dragons, man. He swayed imperceptibly. Vicious felt himself frown disapprovingly, aware of Mao's eyes on the two of them.

Lin and Vicious were sharing a room at the Choe Millenium Hotel, their five-star accommodations courtesy of their hosts. Vicious had returned from his workout at the gym to find Lin swilling Souvignon Blanc and _baijiu_, muttering incoherently and grappling with his necktie.

"You!" He'd slurred, pointing at Vicious accusingly, his aim somewhat off, and set down the bottle of _baijiu_. "You're no better than any of them."

Vicious raised an eyebrow and looked at his watch. "Lin, you have two hours to get sober before Mao knows about this."

"Shut up, you." Lin flopped down onto the bed, rubbing a hand over his eyes, face scrunching up. "What, you gonna tell on me? Rat me out? I'm just—" he sneezed. "I'm just pregaming for the party tonight. Youngmin told me that there are going to be chicks there. Choe is hiring chicks to just stand there, can you believe it? Hot chicks, I'm just getting ready. God, you smell."

It was true that Vicious had accumulated a fine sheen of sweat over his body after his workout, but he wasn't the type given to malodorous secretions. Spike's voice whispered _piss boy_ in his ear.

"Get up, Lin." Vicious approached the bed.

"Mmphrg." The other man kept rubbing at his eyes, his breath coming unevenly, wetly. "I'm sober. Not drunk."

"Lin—"

Lin's body started to shake, his breath coming in hiccups and gasps. He kept his hands plastered over his face as he choked, growing wet with tears. Vicious reached out, pulled the bottle of pulled up an ottoman and sat at the foot of the bed. He considered the bottle of _baijiu _on the ground, the smell winding up from the depths of the bottle, enticing in its sharpness. Vicious picked it up. Lin was crying now, choked gasps of _oh my god, oh jesus, oh christ_, a blasphemous mantra in the background. Vicious took a swill.

The vodka burned all the way down his throat, setting the back of his eyes on fire and settling warmly at the bottom of his stomach, a sleeping dragon. He took another, and another, until he could feel his eyes watering. He stared down into the bottle, liquid barely visible, glimmering all the same. It wasn't Lin on the bed anymore, crying. It wasn't New Seoul that surrounded them, the two of them—scientists, janitors, hitmen, persuaders, Red Dragons.

Vicious saw the other man sit up from the corner of his eye, breaths slowing, one or two last hiccoughs escaping from him.

Lin said, low and fractured, "they have Shin now."

The sun was beginning to set outside New Seoul, the glass of the dome around the city diffracting the light, scattering rainbows across the horizon. A group of people passed outside their door, footsteps and laughter fading as they walked away. Vicious looked up—Lin's gaze rested defiantly on him.

"I thought they wouldn't need him," Lin continued, mouth set in a thin line. Challenging Vicious to report him. "I thought I was enough."

Vicious took one last drink from the bottle, eyes still on Lin. He stood up and headed to the bathroom.

"I'm fucking loyal, you know that," Lin asserted behind him, standing up now. "You know that."

Vicious shut the door behind him.

Lin blabbered on during the ride, hushed whispers growing less and less desperate as he succumbed to the lulling rhythm of the engine. Mao's concern didn't betray itself as more than a squint of the eyes and a slight furrowing of the brow, yet Vicious thought to himself that Mao never looked more like a father in that moment-- unconcerned with syndicate politics and the presence of Liu beside him, attention forward yet restrained. Vicious nodded once, as if to reassure the older man. Lin eventually fell asleep, and the ride continued on in paternal, filial silence.


	6. The Main Ballroom

6.

The main ballroom was filled with various gentlemen and ladies dressed in formalwear, some mingling by the bar, others scattered around the dining tables in small groups. A band played a lively waltz on stage, with a few of the more courageous attendees were attempting to keep pace on the dance floor. Chongsum-clad ladies lined the walls, their hair all swept in tight updos, looking pretty and attentive and wary. A red banner that spanned the width of the room hung over the stage that read "Happy 20th Anniversary to Choe Corporation, Long Live the Prosperity of New Hangul" in three lines of bright gold lettering in Korean, Chinese, and English. A hostess in traditional Korean garb approached the them with four glasses of champagne and directed them to their assigned table, entreating them to help themselves to the refreshments and that she would tell Mr. Soumin Choe that the guests of honor had arrived.

Soumin ambled over with a woman he introduced as his wife-- a steely-looking and regal looking woman who shook their hands with an iron grip. Mao and Liu left with Soumin to introduce themselves to the other members of the board of directors that they hadn't met the previous day, leaving Lin and Vicious to stand by themselves, glasses of champagne perched on their fingertips and sullenly looking around at the commotion in the ballroom.

Any attempt at conversation between the two of them was cut short when Jaesung walked over, a young woman perched gingerly on his arm. Lin smiled politely and Vicious kept his expression stoic.

"Vicious! Lin. It's good to see you here." He was all grins. The woman beside him giggled nervously. "I was certain from my first impression of you that this wouldn't be your scene." The comment was directed to the both of them, but he kept his gaze on Vicious.

"It would be impolite to refuse such a wonderful opportunity," Lin said.

Jaesung chuckled. "Loosen up and spare me the niceties," he said. "We've both had enough corporate bullshit for the day. Help yourself to the bar if you need to. We have a long evening ahead of us, and I have to admit-- not all of the performances or speeches will be as stimulating as the Dom Perignon you two are currently drinking."

Lin blustered and mumbled a "thank you," and looked as his champagne flute with great intensity.

"This is my wife, Yoojin," the woman next to him smiled shyly, her handshake as limp as her hair. She was dressed in a cream-colored chiffon gown, a pashmina casually thrown over her shoulders. Despite her sophisticated apparel, a pair of smudged, wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on her nose at an unbalanced angle, giving her a disheveled, unfinished look. Jaesung continued, "having the chairman as her father means that she's been attending these sorts of things since she came out of the womb."

"Enough to make me chase a career in academia in response," she laughed, her glance flitting from Vicious to Lin and back to Jaesung.

"Yoojin is an assistant professor of sociology at Ewha Women's College here in New Seoul," Jaesung said. "But you have to wine and dine as much there as you do here, don't you?"

"The only discernible difference is that instead of talking about the markets, we talk about the role of symbolic interactionism in East Asian cultures," she remarked, and then pursed her lips, giving Jaesung a sidelong glance. "I'm afraid that if I go on any longer I'll embarrass myself in front of your associates."

"I think I see Jihye looking slightly tipsy over by the chocolate fountain," Jaesung pointed. "You should go save her from herself before she throws herself over your brother like last time."

Yoojin _tsked_ good-humoredly under her breath. "That woman is completely incorrigible. Please excuse me, gentlemen."

He turned his gaze from her to the two of them. "Judging from our interactions just now, I imagine that neither of you has had much experience with this sort of thing."

Lin bristled, but returned flatly, "it is our great honor to be the guests of Choe Corporation tonight."

Jaesung raised an eyebrow, unable to keep a smirk off his face. "Melinda," he called, and a tall, statuesque girl with high cheekbones and lips as round and red as a cherry's sauntered over. "Lin, Vicious, meet Melinda. As you can probably guess, this stunner is a model."

"But there are too many of us on the runway," Melinda bemoaned, taking the blunt compliment in stride. "I've been auditioning for acting roles, but nobody wants a girl of my height in television. They say it's unbecoming."

"Van and Qing is actually major stakeholder in the Chinese film industry," Jaesung grinned. "Melinda, maybe you should talk to our boy Lin here. Lin works as an associate for Van and Qing."

"Is that right?" The woman's eyes lit up. "Van and Qing is an _excellent_ firm," she crooned. Lin blinked in disbelief at Jaesung, but the other man kept talking.

"Melinda's Chinese is a little shaky, so maybe she can practice on you." Melinda nodded enthusiastically, as if this were the best idea in the world. "But we're all better at different languages when we've imbibed a little."

"O-of course," Lin stuttered, looking up at Melinda. "Right away." She giggled coquettishly and hooked her arm in around Lin's, speaking close in his ear, which flushed red to the tips.

The band changed its tune, something big band and upbeat.

"I hope I've done more good than evil for your man there," Jaesung chuckled. "He seems like he needs to loosen up. But you-- you're no better than him."

Vicious cast him a look. "Why is that?"

Jaesung shrugged, watching him closely. "You're too intense for your own good. It's obvious what you're here to do." He looked away and continued lightly, "my only question is why your superiors let you out of your cage to frolic with the rest of us. As good as you look, you stand out like an unhammered nail."

Vicious cast him a sharp glance. "And what is it that I'm here to do?"

Jaesung laughed again. "I've done my homework on Van & Qing. I can only hope that my father-in-law has done the same."

Vicious smiled. He stood up straighter, looked Jaesung in the eye. The other man took a step back, his breath catching in his throat. Vicious took a step forward, face inches from the other man's. "If you've done your homework, then you should be worried." His voice was a growl in the back of his throat, husky. Deliberately so.

Jaesung hesitated momentarily, then tipped his glass toward Vicious in a mock toast, smile widening. "If anybody should be worried, it's your superiors."

"Oh?" Vicious toasted him back. Their glasses clinked together, the chime ringing distantly in Vicious' ears. "But I'm only here to make movies."

Jaesung regarded him carefully, intently. "The four of you are scheduled for a company tour tomorrow," he said. The other man was close enough that Vicious could smell his cologne-- smoky and woody and faintly sweet. "My office is on the second to last floor. You should stop by. Work on your communication skills."

A girlish giggle, and the two of them stepped abruptly away from each other, staring in the direction of the noise. Melinda and Lin were back. The girl held a glass of port in her hand, the other covering her mouth, stifling her laughter. Lin cheeks were flushed from the drink, but his face was dead set and serious.

"Oh darling, you just can't leave them alone, can you?" Melinda shook her head. "Poor thing, what am I supposed to tell Yoojin?"

Jaesung grinned. "What, two friends can't have a drink in the afternoon?"

"It's not the daytime insobriety I'm worried about, my dear." Melinda's eyes glazed flirtatiously over Jaesung and Vicious.

"You've caught me red-handed, I'm afraid." Jaesung smiled good-naturedly, unperturbed. Melinda giggled, _of course I have_.

The band finished up the last song and the emcee's voice cracked over the loudspeakers. "Excuse me, everyone-- please take your seats. We will be starting the program soon."

"Sorry to leave you so soon," Melinda pressed a kiss on Lin's cheek. "Don't forget our plans for later, handsome." Lin waved and nodded helplessly.

"Likewise." Jaesung winked over his shoulder at Vicious, who stared back, unmoved. Melinda slapped his shoulder playfully, murmuring _Jaesung, you tramp_, as they walked away.

Mao and Liu were making their way back, each with a chongsum-clada girl in arm and looking pleasantly sedated. Lin snapped out of his model-induced reverie. His voice was heated. "You can't--"

Vicious cut him off. "I know what I'm doing."


	7. Entrenched in Insomnia

7.

Entrenched in insomnia that night, Vicious got up and took a walk outside, took in the glittering sleepiness that was New Seoul. The city glittered outside, reflection of skyscraper upon skyscraper creating a mirrored universe filled with hard glass and the repeating images of people trapped behind windows, unknowingly caged. Vicious watched with a certain sullen detachment as cars flowed down the interstate, their yellow coming-to and red going-away lights flickering ambivalently through the 5am mist. He felt his hands growing cold, his face growing damp as the fog condensed on his skin, a cool, tingling blanket.

He returned back to the building, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the bright glare of fluorescent lighting on the marble tile.

"Can I help you, sir?" Vicious inhaled sharply, his nose filling with the saccharine yet spiky smell of hotel-lobby potpurri. It was only the desk attendant, still obscenely energetic at this hour.

His reply was interrupted by the piercing shrill of his cell phone. Vicious almost felt embarrassed, ashamed, to interrupt the calm of the lobby, of the 5am world outside. Yet his hand was slow and deliberate in its movement as it fished the phone from his pockets, pressed the "receive" button.

"Hello?"

A yawn greeted him. Vicious smiled.

"Spike," he said.

"I paid the rent," the other man's voice was sleepy-sounding. The phone amplified the sounds of unlabored breathing, the sounds of background noise, that would have usually been obscured and overpowered, by visual imagery. Spike—there was a softness to the angles of his face, his voice, an aura of easiness about him that edged on laziness, indifference.

Vicious could have sworn—no, he knew-- that it was late afternoon on Tharsis, and therefore Spike's lethargy was as misplaced as Vicious' wakefulness, his presence in 5am New Seoul, the ring of his cell phone.

"Thanks," he replied, somewhat belatedly.

"And—" Spike yawned again, a long, fawning exhalation of breath. "The landlord said she'd come up and fix the leak under the sink."

Vicious looked around. The desk attendant was studiously looking at his computer screen, feigning ignorance. Vicious frowned. "It's about damn time."

A chuckle, and another pause. Longer, this time. The city stirred outside, making slow, sleepy wake-up sounds—a car driving by in the distance, the hum of voices carried by the wind, birds chirping quietly, ashamed to be too shrill. A breeze blew through the lobby, incongruous and unexpected. Maybe it was just the air conditioning units, starting up. "So, how's Earth?"

Vicious sighed. He surprised himself, but answered nonetheless. "New Seoul isn't exactly representative."

"Exactly why I wanted to go." Spike exhaled on the other side, his breath a harsh, abrasive roar over the phone. "I hear it's pretty sweet there. They've still got everything intact. Those domes protect the city from the meteor showers. It's supposed to be the closest thing to what Earth was like before the Gate Accident."

"Mm," Vicious affirmed, his eyes on the appearing light outside. The sky was faintly less navy than it was. Any moment before the pink started creeping up on the horizon.

"Well," Spike was sounding more awake now. "I'll be going there when I cash in on my vacation days, though that'll be in a few years. Hope the city will still be around."

He felt himself smiling. The sky was turning pink, sun coming through the glass dome and making rainbow-patterns if he squinted. He squinted, lips curling, ears filled with the sound of water rushing and the clicking of air conditioners, birds, the flapping of wings. "Don't worry," he said. "It'll still be here."

Suddenly he felt smothered. Tight, trapped, and paralyzed, like the air was running out under the dome. His heart beat furiously, rhythm echoing madly in his ears, all he could hear now.

A glass shattered somewhere.

"They got Shin," Vicious said suddenly, before he could catch himself.

Spike was silent for a long time. "I know," he finally said. "I was there."

Vicious had no idea what had possessed him to say that, and now he could not think of anything else to say.

It was Spike who broke the silence. "Hey, I gotta go. But you do good now."

Vicious' lips were dry; he licked them. His tongue made a clicking sound against his mouth.

"Thanks."

* * *


	8. Shirt Wrinkled and Untucked

8.

Shirt wrinkled and untucked, hair messed and eyes wide, Lin stumbled in almost right after Vicious returned to the room. He stared at Vicious (or at nothing) for a few moments before breezing past without a word; Vicious caught a whiff of expensive perfume and debated whether he should be nauseated, disgusted, or offended. The differences between the three sentiments were only barely distinguishable, after all.

"You should have just stayed there if you were planning on coming in this late."

Lin flipped him the bird and sank into bed, grabbing a pillow and placing it resolutely over his eyes. Vicious shook his head and headed off to grab a shower before breakfast with Mao.

They ate at the hotel's rooftop restaurant, wall-to-wall glass windows giving them a 360 degree view of the city. Lin arrived a few minutes late, a bit disheveled. Mao's face was fixed in a benign smile and they all exchanged pleasantries.

"There's been a change in plans," Mao said once everybody had ordered. "The board meeting has been cancelled. Instead, Soumin has invited Liu and myself to a few rounds of golf this afternoon."

"And we will be obliging his offer," Liu muttered, displeasure evident. "Apparently some frivolous activity will be necessary to facilitate promises from his end."

"You both are to remain on call today," Mao added.

"Of course," Vicious replied.

Shortly after Mao left with Liu, Vicious and Lin returned to their rooms.

"Are we just supposed to sit around all day waiting for something to happen?" Lin flopped onto the bed. Vicious was about to respond when Lin's cell phone rang. He hurried to pick up. "Oh, Melinda." Lin's face flushed the color of a tomato. "Yeah, I had a great time—I just had to leave this morning to catch a meeting. Actually, are you free this afternoon? Let me take you to lunch…"

Vicious left and was in the elevator on his way up before he could be privy to anymore of Lin's blooming tryst, as interesting as it was. He made a mental note to tell Spike about it when the opportunity allowed. He wondered what Spike would say.

The elevator stopped at the second to last floor and Vicious stepped out, slightly startled by the sound of his shoes clicking cleanly on the bright marble tiles. Light flooded the hall, echoing in vast halos off the high ceilings. The corridor from the elevator opened up to a bare and spacious seating area, a fish tank stretching wall-to-wall, various aquatic creatures drifting lazily within. East Asian artifacts littered the floor, mounted on pedestals and labeled with gold plates; stone sculptures and bronze vases ominous and reverent, precious jades, jewelry, and weaponry displayed, sheltered lovingly at eye level behind glass cases. His gaze eventually came to rest on a set of katanas, nestled gingerly within a mahogany frame, sheathed in black laquered, gold-flecked wooden cases.

A ring from the lift chamber, and footsteps approached, deliberate and unhurried. Vicious turned slightly.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Jaesung gestured at the display, arms crossed in front of him. Vicious returned a half-smile.

"Good afternoon."

"My condolences," Jaesung said. "It seems as if you weren't invited to play golf with the rest of the board."

"Unfortunately not."

"This might sound callous to you—but it doesn't surprise me. I don't doubt your putting abilities, but the game also requires a knack for small talk."

"So it seems," Vicious replied.

"My offer from yesteday still stands," Jaesung took a step in the direction of the elevators. "I also have the original set of katanas on display in my office, if you'd care to have a look."

"Oh?" Vicious was more curious than he'd admit.

Jaesung's office was sleek and spotless, outfitted in black leather and stainless steel furniture, light streaming in generously through the bay windows behind his desk, a panoramic view of the metropolis and the harbor stretching out into the distance. The room smelled of the potpurri from the hotel lobby, mixed with another familiar smell—the smell that lingered on Lin in the morning—Melinda's perfume.

A coolness pressed up against his hand, a glass pushed into it. Jaesung sipped thoughtfully at his own cognac as Vicious contemplated his.

"Melinda was here earlier today," Jaesung commented. "She seems to be quite infatuated with that friend of yours—but then again, Melinda becomes easily infatuated with everything."

"Lin doesn't seem to understand that we're here on business."

"Networking is all in the spirit of business, my friend."

Vicious started at the endearment, and trained his most sullen look on the other man, who stared back blithely. "And is this how you do business?"

Jaesung smiled broadly. "I admit that life was a bit more busy in the days before the Choe family bought out my business. What you see—this office, my title-- are all just a temporary honorarium before they give me the pink slip like everybody else they've bought out."

Vicious swirled the cognac around in the tumbler, and took a sip. "Do you have a plan?"

"I don't plan to go quietly, though sometimes I'm tempted to just get away from it all." Jaesung shrugged. "Honestly, I'm surprised at your interest in my humble life. I invited you up here with the expectation that you'd—well, I didn't know what to expect, actually. I really wonder-- what's going on in that head of yours?"

"Most people are afraid of me when they first meet me."

"Really. I can't imagine why."

Vicious shrugged. "Me neither."

"Imagination is a luxury few can afford." Jaesung laughed—a pleasant, genuine sound. "Not a man of many friends, are we?"

"You seem to be a man of many."

"There you'd be wrong." Jaesung brushed past Vicious. "I'm lucky to count sycophants, backstabbers, and idiots among my regular company."

"And your wife?"

"An idiot, I'm afraid." Jaesung sighed. "Though being put up on a pedestal does do wonders for the ego. By the way-- think fast."

Vicious caught the katana with his free hand and set the glass of cognac down, unsheathing the blade. A sliver of silver gleamed rebelliously back at him.

"Passed down in my family for generations, been around before the Gate Accident. If it had been up to my father he would have sold it as quickly as he sold our business. I guess right now the heirloom is as safe as it could ever be, hanging out here behind a glass case—inside a glass skyscraper--- under a glass dome."

"Virtually untouchable."

"Virtually." Jaesung paused. "But it still sees some action every now and then."

Vicious glanced up and resheathed the sword, tossing it back in the other man's direction. "Some would count themselves lucky to be acquired, from what I know of the corporation. It'd be an easy life for you. You could retire early."

"And do what? Join the Peace Corps? Save whale rats on Ganymede?" Jaesung scoffed. "I'm never leaving my job, that's a fact. Let me ask you something—would you just go quietly, if you were bought out?"

Vicious thought, for a heartbeat, that Spike would have been able to say _yes,_ confidently and assuredly and without a doubt in his head. Of course, only those who could live in the moment utterly and completely were able to give impulsive answers.

"I can't say that I would."

"I thought as much."

Vicious took a breath, deeper than it needed to be. "You should really think about it."

Jaesung gave him a curious glance before lifting his glass. "To fighting for fighting's sake."

It took a moment for him to get his bearings, before he replied in kind, "never surrendering."

"Never giving up."

"Staying to the true path."

"Doing the right thing."

Vicious raised his glass at that.

"Thank goodness." Jaesung sighed dramatically. "I was afraid that you'd keep performing your repertoire of cliché toasts."

There was an edge to Vicious' smile. "There's a reason that people are afraid of me, you know."

The other man laughed, unfazed. "It's a risk I'm willing to take."


	9. Tiresome and Unnecessary

9.

Golfing was tiresome and unnecessary, Liu griped. Sure, the weather was nice on the golf course, and who didn't enjoy a little bit of sunshine every now and then, but that was all a result of Seoul being enclosed in artificial caprice, this superstrong polymer enclosure, and damn it all if that class act Soumin didn't act like he owned the whole world, Liu would be glad to show him the meaning of humility, and so on. Mao's face was zen, unperturbed and accommodating, twiddling his thumbs methodically and giving Lin and Vicious knowing looks every so often as they all endured Liu's rant.

And now they were indulging further in company expenses, not that Liu had a huge problem with that, as long as long as they weren't eating out of the Red Dragons' coffers, but still, what an unnecessary waste of time. Liu didn't dispute that Soumin Choe was probably the most powerful man in New Hangul, but that didn't mean that they had to willingly partake in this showcase of the man's extraordinary real estate holdings and endure all of his grandiose guffawing and hearty back slaps as if they were all old college buddies living up their undergraduate days.

Ironic, then, that Liu was the first one in the club, the first one through coat check, the first one to sit down next to Youngmin and the first one of their party to propose a toast to the future collaboration between the Choe Corporation and the Red Drag—Mao had to nudge him hard in the ribs before he choked and finished his toast,

"To the future of the Choe Corporation and Van and Qing!"

Youngmin took a drink right out of the bottle, Soumin laughed heartily, and slapped all the backs of those within his reach. Vicious was positioned strategically on the corner portion of their roundtable couch and managed to sink back far enough that his presence was as unnoticed as he'd want it to be.

But apparently, not as unnoticed as he could be.

Soumin got up at some point, a bit tipsily, presumably to talk to the manager of the club. When he came back he plunked himself down right next to Vicious, reaching for the bottle of Dom and filling both his and Vicious' glasses with pomp and circumstance.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" He asked, and Vicious nodded ambivalently, staring at Soumin long enough just to let him know that he was not being outright ignored.

But Soumin wasn't fazed. "It's been a long journey to get to where we are. I'm sure that you'll appreciate your own journey through the Red Dr—excuse me, Van and Qing, in a few years." He gave Vicious a knowing look.

"Take Youngmin, for instance." The Choe patriarch pointed at his son, who was at the moment, ruffling Lin's hair and taking swigs out of Dom. "Rambunctious? Yes. Earnest? Quite. A hard worker. Never put him in charge of a project that he couldn't handle." He looked dark for a minute. "Some say that he doesn't deserve it. But let me tell you, if he were at a bank or any other MNC, his network and his personality would get him to the exact same place. So don't accuse me of keeping it within the family." Soumin looked disgusted as he finished off his Dom, and motioned to a waiter. "A handle of Remy XO," he commanded.

They were silent for a while. Vicious followed the line of Soumin's sight, which began at the end of the table, with Liu, who was in the middle of telling some story—over Mao, who had abandoned his tense, cold friendliness in favor of sinking comfortably into the couch's supple leather embrace—over to Youngmin, where it stayed. Youngmin was listening to Liu's story with rapt attention, his laughter unpretentious and genuine, eyes bright and clear even through the drink and the haze of the club. He looked young, much younger than his twenty-something years, almost childish in his eagerness and his sincerity. Vicious' own gaze drifted back to Soumin, the older man reminding him of Mao, right at the moment, of the protective nature of fathers.

Jaesung was at the bar a few feet away, flirting casually with a waitress, the lines of his body long and lean and relaxed, effortless.

"In fact," Soumin raised his hand to his chin, scratching absently, "you could accuse me of the opposite."

Vicious met Soumin's gaze with purpose, and held it without looking away, until the Remy XO arrived.

"You understand, of course." Soumin leaned back into the booth, fingers crossed, watching Vicious dispassionately, all paternal pretense gone.

Vicious raised his glass. "Of course." He drank everything in one breath, and put his glass out for more. Soumin smiled broadly, though didn't venture to clap him on the back. He announced loudly to the rest of the booth as he filled up the glass, "looks like even the quiet ones can put 'em away!"

Lin was drunk again, face flushed fluorescent pink, curse of his heritage, and spouting the same bullshit that he'd first let out a few days ago in the hotel room. He cornered Vicious in the bathroom as they were washing their hands. "What's going on with you these days?" he said. "The Elders should have known that Spike's the only one—the only one who can keep an eye on you."

"Don't talk about something you don't know," Vicious replied flatly, reaching for a paper towel.

Lin looked annoyed, but that might have just been the flush to his face. "Just remember to follow orders, damn it."

They were the only two in the bathroom besides the attendant, who didn't matter. Vicious pushed Lin into the wall, watching as the other man bounced off harmlessly, nursing his shoulder with a pained hiss. He stared at Vicious, incredulous.

"What the _fuck_."

Vicious left without dignifying him with a response. This place was stifling, suffocating, he needed to get outside. Outside past the confines of the building, the city, of the fucking _dome_.

He ran into someone in the hallway. "In a hurry?" Jaesung looked disheveled—his jet black hair was tousled, his pupils dilated and eyes hooded, cheeks flushed with color and mouth wet. His tongued flicked out, licking his lips, a momentary distraction of pink and flesh. There was something deliberately controlled about the movement.

Vicious found that his throat was dry when he replied, "I'm sorry."

"I'll call you later," Jaesung said easily, taking a step back. Vicious felt the space between them keenly, and forced himself not to think anything of it. "I'll be having a few visitors later—I'm sure they'd love to meet you."

Vicious wasn't sure what he said in return, of if he said anything in return, but walked out without looking back.


End file.
